The Birth of Brothers
by Ms.MaraJade
Summary: Pre-Series. While on the run and seeking safety, Aramis and Porthos come across an unlikely couple that need assistance of their own. A light-hearted adventure presented as part of the November Fête des Mousquetaires challenge: Good Samaritan. (Rated T to be safe, only because of a couple minor curse words.)


_Author's Notes_ : This month I needed a little pick-up and a reason to smile, and this story reflects a more light-hearted tale. This is set pre-series, before Aramis and Porthos become involved in the complications that arise for each of them during the duration of the show. If this story is not in canon with any established themes regarding these two characters, the mistake is all mine, as it has been a while since I had watched the series.

 _Disclaimer_ : I do not own "The Musketeers" in any capacity with the exception of the books written by Alexandre Dumas from where these characters originated. There is no money made from this hobby, but that does not stop my imagination from conjuring up new stories.

Summary: Pre-Series. While on the run and seeking safety, Aramis and Porthos come across an unlikely couple that need assistance of their own. A light-hearted adventure presented as part of the November Fête des Mousquetaires challenge: Good Samaritan.

 **The Birth of Brothers**

In the darkness of night, the details of their faces were obscured, with goatees and mustaches blending their dark skin tones further into the shadows. Their clothing revealed their lives as soldiers – leather doublets over simple tunics and trousers and sturdy boots to protect their feet and shins during their skirmishes. The shoulder pauldrons of their shared occupation was lost in the shadows, the _fleur-de-lis_ of their stations nearly hidden in the night. Each of the men carried an armament of weapons upon him, their stock including swords, daggers, muskets, canisters of explosive powder, and the pouches that held the extra filaments and musket balls.

Each man on his own was a testament to the bravery of his vocation. The taller one sported a scar over his left eye, giving the impression of a hardened man who dared not be challenged lightly. The shorter one, in contrast, had a kinder look about him, as he did not have any such obvious marks on his face, but his body beneath his clothing was littered with scarred reminders of his survivals.

They were each dark-haired and dark-eyed, the taller one keeping his thick hair short, making it easier to wrap his bandanna over his head when he was preparing for a fight. The other man's hair fell in dark locks towards the back of his neck, the thick waves shifting with his movements but obediently staying out of his eyes.

Stumbling in the darkness, the shorter man held the bulk of his larger comrade, his knee-length coat flapping against the back of his legs as he moved. He dared to shift his head to look behind him for a single moment, but he knew not to dwell on what he couldn't see in the nighttime shadows. His eyes were well-trained for targets, but not even he possessed the ability to see long distances in the dark or through the thick vegetation of the forest.

Turning his attention forward again, he was certain he smelled the familiar scent of wood burning in the not-too-far distance. Even if he couldn't see the destination he sought, he would have no choice but to follow that scent if they were going to find any kind of refuge from their pursuers.

"Steady, Porthos," the shorter man instructed soothingly, "I need you to make it just a little farther."

"I know you mean well, Aramis," the taller man seethed between clenched teeth, "But, I'm only slowing you down."

"Don't you dare speak like that – not now, not ever," Aramis chastised, as he pushed through a few more steps before Porthos stumbled.

Aramis had been burdened with his friend's weight for the last fifteen minutes, doing his best to hold a musket ready in one hand while allowing Porthos to use him as a crutch as they limped along through the forestry. Their only consolation was that they had the cover of darkness to hide their movements, but if the threesome of marauders they had escaped from caught up to them, they would not be able to hide from them for long, despite the night shadows under the cloudy skies.

"I'm being a realist," Porthos shot back through gritted teeth, doing what he could to avoid the root that nearly caught on his good leg. "You're not the one limping and leaving a trail of blood."

Aramis suddenly pushed his friend's weight off him and gently dropped – as best as he could – the two of them onto the ground and behind the overgrown brush, ignoring Porthos' growl of protest. Kneeling into the thick vegetation of forestry, Aramis shushed his comrade with a swift movement of his hand, a gesture the two of them had known meant silence and to prepare for trouble.

Softly cursing again at the unexpected and unlucky strike of a blade that had grazed against Porthos's hip, Aramis dropped his eyes when he saw the break in the clouds, allowing the half-moon to shine with just enough light to give him a brief second to see the glistening of Porthos' blood still expanding over his clothes.

"You won't last too much longer like this. That's a lot of blood loss. We need someplace safe so I can get you stitched properly," Aramis told him solemnly, still holding onto his musket at this point by the grace of God.

Porthos grabbed Aramis by the collar and gave him a determined stare. "If you're not going to run while you have the chance, then you better be certain to kill the bastards who did this. You stitch me only after we're safe. No sense in both of us needing…"

Throwing his free hand over Porthos' mouth, Aramis heard the sound of boots shuffling through the woods, snapping twigs and rustling leaves. He saw Porthos give him a silent nod and offer him his musket, letting him know that he would let Aramis do what he does best without interference. When Aramis moved his hand from Porthos' mouth, the larger man took his canister of powder and a handful of musket balls and set them on the ground before him.

"You shoot. I reload," Porthos whispered softly, again doing his best to ground out his words and ignore the pain in his hip. "Just like we did that time when we rescued Lady Laurent from those pirates."

Aramis couldn't help but release a silent laugh at the memory. "They were hardly pirates, and if you recall, Lady Laurent was a lute."

"Well, it would have been nice of Duke Porte to have told us that before we encountered those thieves, thinking they had taken a woman," Porthos retorted bitterly as he thought back to that nearly-botched mission. However, he didn't dwell on it any further, as he positioned his musket so that his friend would not have to do more than reach down to grab it when he needed it.

Raising his hand again in a gesture of silence, Aramis put his efforts into listening carefully, studying what he could hear in the movements of the forest. He dared to peek now between the branches of the bush they were hidden behind. The moonlight continued to keep the forest barely lit, and he was not disappointed when he saw the silhouettes belonging to two men moving in the shadows.

Taking a calming breath, Aramis knew he only had one chance to take out each of them as quickly as he could because as soon as the first musket exploded in the silence of the woods, the other man would instantly be on alert and moving towards the place where the sound had originated. That meant Aramis not only had to be accurate, but he had to be quick, too.

Raising his own musket before him and guiding the barrel between the branches of the bush, Aramis lined up his shot and took that half-second to be certain of his mark. Any deviation in any direction could spell the difference between injury and death – and he absolutely had no intentions of missing. These men had injured Porthos with the intent to murder them both and then steal their weapons and uniforms. Aramis knew that the last thing France needed was imposter musketeers wreaking havoc across her lands, and he did not want either his or Porthos' good names smeared with that kind of slander.

Aramis pulled the trigger, and before the musket finished smoking, he had dropped it for Porthos to reload while reaching for the one beside him in exactly the place where it was most efficient for him to grab without him shifting his eyes from his second target.

As he predicted, the man instinctively turned to his falling comrade, and that was the momentary error that Aramis had been hoping the marauder would make. Shifting Porthos' musket slightly in his hands, Aramis targeted the second man, using the bush for cover again, but was forced to hold his finger over the trigger without firing as the man lowered himself to the ground.

Softly uttering a curse, Aramis kept his eyes scanning the woods for any kind of movement. He concentrated his attention on the rustling of leaves and the snapping of twigs, knowing that patience was the key to winning this battle. Taking a deep breath, Aramis scaled down his focus to an area where he saw a bush shake and a shadow move. _Patience_ , he warned himself, ignoring Porthos next to him setting the reloaded musket in its place again. It would do no good if he fired upon a deer, when it was a man that was his quarry.

A muttered "Ow! Damn it!" and a momentary rise from the bush was all Aramis needed to know his prey was, indeed, his marauder. He fired the musket before the man could settle back again into what he could only imagine must have been a thorny bush to cause so much commotion, and with a rustle of clothes and a dulled thud, the man was no longer a concern for either of them.

However, that was a short-lived victory, as the click of a hammer locking into place sounded from one of the thicker trees behind Aramis and Porthos. Still on his knees, Aramis instantly turned to Porthos and saw his friend make a scowl, as they both apparently did not take into account that the two men they had spent their time tracking were a distraction while the third man came towards them from behind.

Raising his hands to his sides with the spent musket still in his right, Aramis continued to turn until he was now looking in the direction of the man, as he revealed himself from behind a thicket that had wrapped around a wide-trunked tree. Aramis offered his gesture of surrender hoping that either he or Porthos would devise some kind of plan before this man decided to just put a musket ball into both of them.

"So, you're a marksman," the marauder acknowledged, giving the impression that he would allow for a reasonable negotiation. His voice was quiet enough to give respect to Aramis' skills but edged enough to show that he should not be underestimated. Then, his voice suddenly changed as though giving his attention now to Porthos, and the respect all but disappeared. "And, you must be the muscle."

Aramis' instincts to protect his friend surged through him, even if could only verbally defend Porthos. "Don't you dare insult…"

"You're in no position to demand much of anything." The marauder threatened, as he lowered his musket to aim it at Aramis' chest, his dark eyes glinting in warning. "Now, if you'd be so kind. I could use your weapons and uniforms."

Porthos shifted his attention towards Aramis, and Aramis took a steady breath, his eyes flicking quickly towards the spent musket in his hand, hoping Porthos caught his signal. Slowly, he started lowering the musket onto the ground, his movements deliberate. Porthos then looked at the marauder and started shifting as though he was about to get up and fight. It was enough to distract the man, and he turned his attention from Aramis to point the musket at Porthos. Aramis suddenly brought his hands back up, still holding a musket in his hand, realizing that the marauder had not noticed the exchange.

"Easy, no need to go killing the injured," Aramis said calmly. "You'll only bloody our uniforms more, and whatever ruse you plan won't do you any good if someone notices that there's musket ball holes and blood stains on the uniforms."

The man shifted his eyes back to Aramis but kept the musket on Porthos. "Marksman and diplomat. I could use a man like you, but I doubt you'd be willing to alter your allegiances." Abruptly changing his voice, his tone had turned cold again while addressing Porthos. "You…big man. Start giving me that uniform."

Aramis swallowed hard, playing the next few seconds as casually and calmly as he could. If he thought he had to be quick before to take down the other two men, he really only had once chance now. If he fumbled or showed any sign of being clumsy, Porthos was certainly a dead man, and he would be right behind him.

"You don't like my friend much, do you?" Aramis asked, hoping Porthos would follow his lead.

The marauder snorted. "Dark-skinned man like him. I've got my reasons."

"Didn't think you really had any good reasons," Porthos growled. "Guess I was right. At least I can say I don't like you because you're a thief and murderer."

Aramis decided that it was good enough to get the man to divert his attention from him and aim it again at Porthos. In a single breath, Aramis dropped his wrist with his grasp still on the musket and steadied his body. Moving fast and purely on instincts he had honed throughout the years, he pulled the trigger and watched the last man of the group fall to the ground, his lifeless body thudding against the dirt and tree roots.

"Took you long enough," Porthos complained without any real anger.

"And, just how many cues did you need before you realized my plan?" Aramis quickly responded while he reloaded both muskets.

Porthos released a large grin, the kind that always managed to make Aramis smile. "This never gets old, does it?"

Aramis raised an eyebrow, unable to resist. "The near-death escapes or the bantering?"

Without warning, Porthos suddenly grew silent and crumpled onto the ground.

Cursing loudly, Aramis set both muskets on his belt and hurried to put Porthos' musket balls and powder back where they belonged. He then reached down and brought Porthos' large mass to lean against him again, knowing he had no choice but to seek help and get his friend stitched. Aramis could not work in the bare moonlight, and he had no alcohol to cleanse the wound.

"The banter, Porthos, I always prefer the banter, especially when it's your life on the line," Aramis answered quietly to his own rhetorical question, knowing he had no choice now but to keep moving.

Taking in the scent of burning wood in the distance again, Aramis did his best to move them through the dark woods, hoping that the sanctuary he sought would provide him with a means to help Porthos. As he walked with Porthos draped awkwardly over his shoulders, he had to be careful about maneuvering between rocks, tree roots, and divots in the ground. It was slow, painful, and tedious, but Aramis would rather be cautious with his friend, and do what he could to prevent further blood loss. He just hoped that there would be enough blood left in Porthos' body for him to survive his injury.

Aramis glanced up at the sky and saw that the moon and constellations had moved only a fraction of distance towards the horizon, which meant that he had not been walking for very long, and the scent of the burning wood had grown stronger. He lowered his eyes again and saw before him a clearing out of the woods. The land gave way to a meadow and not more than a hundred yards away was a small house where the moonlight produced a silver glow over the swirl of smoke rising through the chimney.

"Stay with me, Porthos," Aramis murmured, "And, pray these are friendly folk."

Aramis moved quicker now through the meadow, the threat of unsteady land transitioning into more solid ground. His shoulders burned with fatigue, and his arms were pained with the weight of Porthos' unmoving form. His back was tight and knotted, his legs pushing to keep taking one step after the other, but he would not fail his friend. Aramis knew that if their roles were reversed, Porthos would not give into a little agonized exhaustion, and he had no plans to betray his friend to the weaknesses of his body.

Nearing the house, Aramis saw the simple wooden structure with a couple small windows placed strategically into the walls, one on each side of the front door. Light spilled out of the windows, the flickering of candles inside giving a warm glow to the house. The front yard was lined with trees on both sides, and in the darkness Aramis could barely make out that there were wooden planks hanging awkwardly with rope from a couple of the limbs. There was a small fence with a chicken coop within its borders where he heard the noises of chickens as they rustled inside the structure. Broken pottery was strewn over the land, most of it buried in the ground, as though it had been there for some time. With the light inside and the smoke swirling from the chimney, Aramis silently prayed that the occupants would be accommodating despite the dilapidation around the residence. In fact, if the house had been empty, he would have had no worries about interrupting someone's life with his and Porthos' burdens, and that would have just made things easier.

Shuffling closer to the house, Aramis saw the door suddenly fly open, and a long hunting musket was aimed directly at him.

A voice that was cracked and aged yelled, "Got no time for trespassers. Move along."

"My friend is hurt," Aramis pleaded quietly. "Please, I need somewhere to treat him."

The hunting musket clicked as the hammer locked into position in preparation of firing. The man took two steps out of the door, and he peered over the barrel of the musket as though trying to see around a corner. He was shortened from age, his stature hinting that he was once a man of average height, and he was dressed in simple brown trousers with a white linen tunic. His gray hair was standing out from his head in multiple directions as though he was suddenly awakened from a nightmare. His matured frame was thin and lanky, his bony fingers grasping the musket like one would a railing to keep from falling.

"This is not an infirmary," the man grumbled. "Now, go on. Get."

Aramis opened his mouth to plead once more, but an older woman's voice was faster. "Georges Saint Martin! You put that thing away and get back in here right now. Stop scaring the youngins."

"Youngins?" Aramis asked softly to himself.

The old man turned his head slightly behind him to address the woman, but kept a wary eye on Aramis. "Elise, they got weapons!"

"We are musketeers under the command of King Louis," Aramis quickly defended. "I ask for refuge until my friend gets better. He is seriously wounded and has lost a lot of blood."

Gently pushing the old man out of the way, the woman snatched the musket from him in bony fingers equal to the man's and set the weapon behind the doorframe of the house. She was not much taller than the man she had addressed as Georges, and her thick, silver hair was carefully bundled upon her head with a blue ribbon holding the tresses in place. Her face was lined with wrinkles near her eyes, and her skin sagged only slightly near her chin. The woman's clothing was simple, a blue dress with a white apron over it.

"Well, stop your gaping and get in here if you want to help your friend," the old woman huffed, as she turned around, seeming to lead the way into her house.

Georges turned to the woman and went from arguing to pleading, "Elise…"

"You hush, Georges," the woman scolded. "We haven't had any visitors in a long time – not since those rumors started scaring the children away. If this is our last opportunity to do a good thing before the Lord takes our souls, then I will take that chance with these men."

"You have my most humbled gratitude," Aramis softly told the older couple as he dragged Porthos the last few steps into the house.

The candles inside lit the single-room house brightly, and he quickly noticed the four wooden pillars in the house to keep it stabilized. Off to the left was a humble-sized table in a kitchen-like area with four chairs. There were two simply-cushioned seats situated before the fireplace on the right side with a shelf that contained a number of wooden figurines and a sewing box on a pair of tables between them. The shelf was overly-stocked but neatly arranged despite its crowding, and the sewing box had a half-finished embroidery of red, summer roses sitting upon it. A humble bed was against the back wall, the wooden frame sturdy and the mattress tight beneath the white sheets. The fireplace was emitting a warm glow, allowing for heat to spread through the house, and Aramis welcomed the warmth as the night chill was starting to creep into the air.

Elise hobbled her way towards the table near the kitchen. "Set your friend here and let's see what we can do."

Aramis laid Porthos onto the wooden table as gently as he could, and adjusted him so that he could see the deep gash across his hip. Elise followed Aramis, seeming to be inspecting the wound, as she peered over Aramis' shoulder. Georges closed the door and then shuffled to the stove, boiling water in a small kettle.

Aramis set his weapons near him on the floor, pulling his sewing kit from inside his long coat before turning to the old woman. "Do you have any wine? I didn't dare stitch him without something to dull his pain and cleanse the cut."

"So that's why you didn't stitch him sooner," she nodded while moving towards a cabinet in the kitchen area. "I wondered about that."

Georges shook his head bitterly from the kitchen. "Where's your horses? Never heard of a musketeer not being with his steed. Why, if I abandoned my horse, my father would have given me a good, swift kick in my…"

"Hush, Georges!" Elise chastised as she brought forth a dark green bottle for Aramis and a pile of small cloth scraps. "Don't you go criticizing these strangers."

Georges wrapped the handle of the kettle with a towel and set it on the floor near the table, grumbling, "I'm just saying that it's not wise to leave behind your transportation."

Aramis looked between Georges and Elise and noticed that while they bickered, they moved as one unit, eventually coming to stand at the end of the table. They were far enough out of Aramis' way but close enough to watch him carefully while he adjusted Porthos' clothes near the wound. He then took the cloth and water to clean the skin near the gash and saw just how deep the blade's bite had been.

"You the medic of your unit?" Georges asked while scratching the back of his head, his words more curious than criticizing this time.

Nodding, Aramis realized that he never actually introduced himself. While threading the needle, he decided to remedy that. "Like I said earlier, we are the King's Musketeers. I'm Aramis, and my friend here is Porthos. We were ambushed by a small group of marauders…"

"Got lazy on your duties, did you?" Georges interrupted, his tone back to that bitterness he carried.

"Must you always be so negative?" Elise shot quickly at him.

Aramis was taken aback and felt suddenly defensive about their assignment. Sighing to keep himself calm before he dared stick a needle in Porthos wrong and possibly injure his friend more, he gave the old man a cold stare.

"We got delayed on our return trip from our assignment when we helped a mother with her son's fall from a tree," Aramis explained, "Traveling in the dark has its dangers, but we were in the middle of nowhere and decided it best to keep moving than to the make a shelter in unknown territory. It was when we were passing through a dense section of forest that we were ambushed."

Elise opened the wine bottle and poured a good helping of it onto a piece of cloth. "How is the boy?"

Aramis threaded a few more stitches as he answered, aware of Elise preparing the rag for the wound. "He was lucky. He has a few scrapes and bruises but nothing was broken as far as I could see."

"That mother must have been so relieved for your help," Elise smiled, flashing a quick look at Georges. "Not everyone stops nowadays to help another."

"I fell out of a tree when I was a lad," Georges said, ignoring Elise and putting his bony hands on his thin hips. "Never needed a medic, and I certainly wouldn't have cried to my mother. Youngins today are soft."

Elise began dabbing the stitching with the wine-soaked cloth where Aramis had completed his threading. Her expression shifted to one of sadness. "Georges hasn't been the same since the children..."

Aramis looked at the old woman, about to ask what she meant when Elise's face shifted again, and she shook her head, offering a conspiratory smile to the musketeer instead of finishing her thoughts. "Pay no mind to the ramblings of an old woman. Georges simply hit his head on the way down that tree of his when he fell. Why else would he be so grouchy?"

Aramis couldn't help but smile at the playful glint in the old woman's hazel eyes, despite the obvious sadness she had presented. There was something that had happened to these elderly folks at some point in their lives, and while he knew he shouldn't get involved, he sometimes could not help himself.

Fearful that he was about to kick the hornet's nest, Aramis decided to – just gently – kick it anyway. He chose his question carefully. "Are you two married?"

Elise nodded, her smile infectious as she let her eyes drift back to Georges. The old man brought one of his hands to his head and scratched at the gray tuft of hair near his right ear, suddenly looking like a shy lad instead of a wizened man.

"Had to compete for her," Georges said, "Not like in a duel – but another fellow had his eye on her."

Elise shook her head, her smile lighting the room brighter than the candles. "It was hardly a competition. Georges was kind and sweet – still is when not around strangers – and he had me from the moment our eyes met."

"What became of the other suitor?" Aramis asked as he began dabbing another clean cloth over Porthos' stitching to catch the last of the fresh blood.

"Decided to compete for another man's woman," Georges explained. "He wasn't as nice about it as I was."

Aramis nodded, smartly deciding not to question the other suitor's fate further. "I see. How many years have you been married?"

"You thinking of stealing her?" Georges asked, with a raised eyebrow. "Best not, because we're hoping to see fifty years together this summer."

Washing his hands with the water and the cloth, Aramis shook his head offering an amused smile. "I would never think of it. She obviously only has eyes for you."

"Good," Georges replied, his brown eyes passing with softness over Elise. "I can see you're a charmer, and I don't need you trying to take her from me. It won't end well."

Aramis again smiled at the elderly couple, comforted by their bantering but loving ways. He began tidying up the mess he had created while working on Porthos, doing his best to put everything into a neat arrangement.

Seeming casual and not fully interested, Aramis decided to give the hornet's nest a harder kick now. "You mentioned children earlier…"

Georges rose to his full height, his body growing rigid with a need to defend, and Elise shrunk near her husband's side, her hands grasping his tightly.

However, it was Georges who issued the warning. "Not a concern for a man just passing through. Some wounds don't heal like your friend's, and it's best not to be reminded of them."

Aramis looked at the elderly pair, and instead of pressing for more answers, he knew when to give them their space. He nodded at Georges' warning, changing the subject instead.

"Porthos just needs some rest now," Aramis explained as he put a hand on his friend's arm, feeling for that small, but specific, area of his wrist that would give him an indication of Porthos' expected survival. He was relieved to find that Porthos' pulse was stronger than his appearance suggested. "I did what I could, and the rest is up to his body to heal."

Elise and Georges exchanged a look, something unspoken between them, but it was Elise who voiced their silent agreement as she started moving about the house, pulling large swaths of material from a dresser drawer. "I have some blankets for you. Our home is tiny, but you can sleep here. I'm sorry, if it's just on the floor."

"Slept on far worse conditions than a warm floor," Aramis smiled. Then, his face dropped a little as he saw just how pale his friend was in the candlelight, despite his strong pulse. "If it's all the same, though, I'll just stay by Porthos."

Elise pressed a blanket into Aramis' hands before settling one over Porthos. "At least wrap yourself. The fire will burn out in a couple hours."

"Thank you," Aramis nodded before settling into the chair at the table.

Elise and Georges took their places on the bed, and while Elise began working on her embroidery, Georges set a rag across his lap before he took a small chunk of wood and a knife and began whittling sections of the wood away from the larger piece.

Aramis felt the fatigue finally come over him, and he sat in front of Porthos with his arms crossed before him on the table and his head resting on them. He briefly listened to the elderly couple behind him as they whispered something about the unexpected excitement of their evening. At that point the exhaustion had started taking Aramis into darkness, and he fell into the familiarity of his prayers, asking God to do what he could to allow Porthos to awaken in the morning.

##### ##### ##### ##### #####

"They're too tight."

Aramis popped his head up, and looked around, realizing that the candles were long burned, the fire in the fireplace had died out, and beams of sunlight streaked into the windows of the house. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep quite so deeply, but the crick in his neck told him that he had been in that uncomfortable position for at least a couple hours. Reaching back to the knot in his neck, Aramis began rubbing it, as the memories of the night before crashed over him. He blinked again and looked to Porthos laying on the table before him with his head turned in his direction.

"What are you talking about?" Aramis asked.

"You stitched them too tight," Porthos grumbled. "They pull every time I try to sit up, and I could use a chamber pot."

Turning around, Aramis looked for the elderly couple he had met the night before and saw that both of them were still sound asleep. Georges had set his rag with its carving and knife on the small table beside him while Elise had her embroidery on the table on her side. They were facing each other, their fingers twisted together as though they fell asleep like that every night of their lives.

"Who are they?" Porthos asked softly when Aramis turned around to begin helping him stand.

"Georges and Elise," Aramis replied as he got Porthos onto the floor. Holding onto him like he did last night, Aramis helped him limp towards the door. "They are quite a unique couple."

Once outside, Aramis looked again at the yard, noticing it was quite different from the previous night. The planks he saw hanging from the trees looked like broken swings, and the shattered pottery along the ground were plates and dishware that had been broken a long time ago. The fence near the chicken coup was twisted and snapped in places, the coup itself showing signs of wood that had been bent and split with age.

Not sure what to think of the debris, Aramis led Porthos towards a set of trees and some bushes, making sure his friend could stand before leaving him to his business. Likewise, Aramis found his own privacy to handle his body's matters. When he was done, Aramis moved towards a small stream in the back of the house where he washed his face and hands, allowing the briskness of the water to awaken him.

"What are you doing?" a small voice shouted in a whisper. "The witch and the devil will get you."

Aramis looked up and saw the brown-haired child peeking at him through the branches of a bush. She could not have been older than nine, as she still had some baby fat around her cheeks.

He tilted his head with a smirk, thinking the girl was playing some kind of game as he studied her brown eyes. "Honestly, I'm waking up from a long night. And, I have not seen either a witch or a devil."

The girl looked behind her for a moment as though listening to something and then ducked further into the bush, giving the impression that she didn't want to be seen.

Her voice was still speaking in a whisper. "Years ago they say that children used to come to this house. There was a husband and a wife who would give the children treats. Then, one day two of the children didn't return. The stories say that the husband and wife took them after fattening them up and ate them. I'm hiding from my brother because I want to see the witch and the devil for myself."

Aramis stood from the creek, and began to wonder even more about what Elise's interrupted statement had meant. The story this girl told him also helped explain some of Georges' abruptness about youngins and Elise's sadness about children.

"I can assure you that there are no devils or witches here," Aramis told the girl firmly.

"Where are they?" the girl asked.

Changing the subject, Aramis glanced in the direction where he had left Porthos and saw his friend wave towards him. "I'm Aramis. What's your name?"

"Marcie," she replied. Then, her brown eyes gave Aramis a strange look as she turned behind her again. "Why are you here? Are you living in the house?"

"My friend and I were in a skirmish last night," Aramis answered patiently. "We are staying here while he heals."

"So, there is no more witch and devil?" the girl insisted.

Aramis stared her down, choosing his words carefully and cryptically. "On my honor as a King's Musketeer, I can promise you that there is no one here seeking to harm anyone."

Then, the girl turned and was gone, dashing through the trees. Aramis decided not to dwell on this strange little Marcie, and he wanted to get Porthos back inside so his friend could get his body back to healing. He moved towards the area where he left Porthos, and as he did earlier, he helped walk him back into the house.

"You talking to bushes now?" Porthos asked as he held onto Aramis as they moved through the doorway, closing the door behind them.

"No, a child," Aramis answered as they settled at the seats near the table and caught the strange expressions on the faces of their host and hostess. "Apparently, there is some superstition about these good folks being evil spirits."

Elise was setting cooked eggs on a platter after she put fresh fruit into a bowl while Georges was putting plates and utensils around the table before sliding into his chair. He looked at the two men, giving a glance to Elise as she brought the bowl over and set it down.

"Glad to see you up and moving. You didn't look too good last night," Georges now nodded towards Porthos. Then, more to himself, he shook his head mumbling, "Damn youngins still spreading those rumors."

"Eat, Porthos," Elise insisted with a smile. "Your friend took wonderful care of you."

"What was the cause of these rumors?" Aramis asked, pushing now for the mystery around this couple as he scooped the offered breakfast onto his plate.

"It was a tragedy," Elise said finally, as sadness filled her voice while she took a few berries from the bowl before her and set them on her plate. "We could never have children of our own, so we used to offer our yard and home to the children from the nearby village. Georges made little swinging boards for them on the trees, and I used to give them fresh fruit and bread while we had tea parties. Our home was finally lively and joyous with them all playing here."

Elise gave a radiant smile, as the memories of such times passed over her face. However, it didn't last, and a moment later, her expression fell into one of sadness and despair. "Then, one day, two of the children were attacked by a coyote on their way home. Georges killed the beast, but the damage was already done. I just couldn't save them from their injuries, and when Georges told the villagers what had happened, the parents of the village thought it best to spread rumors that we were the devil and his witch wife. I know they just wanted to protect their children, and they believed it was the only way to keep the children from venturing into the woods and becoming prey to more animals while traveling to and from our home. We resigned ourselves to that fate, knowing we would never want another child harmed by our selfishness for their company."

"I got to keep my wife safe," Georges explained with a mix of anger and sadness between bites of his eggs. "Every so often someone comes wandering here looking to see the devil or the witch. When we were younger, someone tried to hurt Elise. They broke all the dishware in the yard that the children used to play with, claiming it was enchanted. I shot him in the leg and told him that if he ever came back, I would show him what a real devil does to a man."

Aramis nodded solemnly. "I am sorry about your past, and I now understand your insistence last night for your hesitancy at our arrival."

Porthos swallowed down a handful of berries. "I apparently missed quite a bit."

"Well, it was nice to have the company for a little while." Elise smiled in a maternal way at both musketeers. "With the wound you have, I don't expect you'll be needing to stay much longer, and you'll likely be on your way by tomorrow."

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look, one that offered an entire conversation without one word spoken between them.

"Honestly, I think I need a little more time," Porthos said, touching upon his hip gently as he looked to Aramis. "That was a very bad gash, wasn't it?"

Aramis nodded expectantly, his eyes passing around the others in the room. "It was certainly deep. As your medic, I do not recommend you wandering very far from the confines of a safe environment."

Elise and Georges suddenly laughed, a sound that was both warm-hearted and genuine. Their eyes caught each other's, and the reflection of their younger selves surfaced for a brief moment.

"You both are absolutely horrid liars," Elise chastised with a smile.

"You can stay," Georges nodded, giving both of them a long stare, "But, only until you're well enough to go on your own. We're used to being alone, and I don't want your charity ruining it for us."

Both Porthos and Aramis laughed, but it was Aramis who spoke first. "I'm going to need something to do while Porthos recuperates. Perhaps, as a sign of gratitude for your hospitality and an early anniversary gift I can rework the fence around the chicken coup and clean up the yard a little?"

Elise looked to her husband and put a bony hand upon his arm. "Oh, Georges, that would be lovely."

The old man locked his fingers into those of his wife, his eyes shifting from her to the two musketeers sitting at their table. "That would be a lovely gift, indeed. Entirely unnecessary, but I can see I cannot convince you otherwise."

Porthos threw a hand across Aramis' shoulders smiling brightly. "He's a good man, this one."

"And, what about you, Porthos?" Elise asked.

Laughing, Porthos answered, "Me? I'm nothing but a troublemaker and a devil. Aramis has the lucky penance of looking after me and keeping me out of the Bastille."

##### ##### ##### ##### #####

During the next two days, Aramis did as he promised. The fence around the chicken coup was reworked to hold sturdier, and the coup inside had the rotted boards replaced. He removed all the broken dishes from the ground, digging up the shards and removing them. He then dug up a couple fruit bushes from the nearby woods and put them into the overturned ground, making less of a distance for Georges and Elise to have to venture into the woods to find food. He cut down the old ropes that held the broken planks in the trees, and he fixed a floorboard on the porch that Elise insisted creaked too loudly.

Aramis set down the axe and wiped his brow from some sweat after chopping wood for the fireplace. When he looked up he recognized the same little girl he had seen a couple days ago, along with a man that he had not seen before.

"Papa, see it's that musketeer I told you about," Marcie said as she looked up to her father, who was a man in his early forties with brown hair and brown eyes that were similar to his daughter's. He wore the clothing of a simple man but over those clothes hung the thick, leather apron of a blacksmith.

"Marcie mentioned that there were two musketeers staying at the old Saint Martin residence," the man explained. "I'm sorry for my unannounced arrival, but I wanted to know what became of the previous residents."

"I'm returning a favor to them," Aramis explained. "Georges and Elise still reside here, and they were kind enough to take in my friend and I until my friend recovers from his injuries."

Aramis heard the door open behind him and watched as the man before him stiffened as though preparing for a fight. Marcie retreated into her father's side, her eyes expecting to see the supposed witch and devil.

"Oh my!" Elise breathed, and her movements suddenly stopped. "We want no trouble."

In barely a moment's worth of time, Georges was beside his wife, a bony hand holding her waist protectively.

Aramis glanced behind him and saw that the old woman was carrying a cup with something for him to drink. He turned back to the man and the little girl, watching their expressions shift from defensive to curious.

"One problem with growing old," Aramis explained, bringing his eyes to the man and then Marcie, "Is that your body gives out before you can fix the broken things around you. And, the other problem is that the time to amend wrongs passes too quickly."

"Are they evil?" Marcie asked, looking with concerned eyes at the elderly couple.

Aramis brought his irises from the girl to the husband and wife he had grown to know in his short time here. Then he lowered himself to one knee, bringing himself to the girl's height. "There never was any evil here – just kindness that had been forgotten about over time."

Marcie's father looked behind Aramis, his eyes widening for a brief moment.

"The thing about superstitions," Porthos explained as he leaned against the wall of the house, with his musket casually draped over his shoulder, "Is that they only grow worse when no one takes the time to learn how they start."

Marcie watched with curiosity as her father gently scooped her up from the ground and stepped closer to the house.

"Papa!" she yelled.

He turned to look at his daughter for a brief moment. "It was my family who started all this. It's time for me to put an end to the superstitions."

Aramis quickly stood and shot a look at Porthos, aware of his friend keeping his attention on the scene in the yard. He watched cautiously as Marcie's father moved closer to the house and the old couple standing before its doorway.

Elise grasped onto Georges, and Porthos brought himself as close to his full height as his healing stitches would allow. He slid his finger into the trigger of the musket over his shoulder, but he threatened his movements no further, opting to wait and see if he would need to help save Aramis and the old couple first.

Marcie's father lifted his hand and pushed some loose, brown strands from his eyes. "Honestly, many of us thought that you both had passed away by now. The stories of you both being evil had died down over the last few years, but once in a while one of the old villagers talks about it, and the story reignites. My son and daughter caught word of the story and came here a few days ago. That's when Marcie met your musketeer, and she thought you were both finally gone. We came to see for ourselves if it was true."

"These young men needed our help," Elise pleaded, "They have been most kind in return."

"And protective," Porthos quickly added.

"Speak your peace and leave us to ours," Georges grumbled. "We have done nothing in over forty years to deserve more ridicule."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Marcie's father said, looking amongst the musketeers and the old couple. "It's time for these false stories about you to stop. There's still time for me to fix what my family started so that you may rest peacefully one day."

"Then, start by telling your village's people what really happened to those children all those years ago," Aramis explained patiently. "Don't allow the elders to continue telling false stories or the cycle will never break."

Marcie's father looked at the old couple again. "The problem is, I don't know the truth of what happened. I know it was my family that started the stories, but they refused to explain how they ever came to be."

"Then, now is the time to learn," Aramis pressed, "Before the truth is lost forever."

"Aramis, Porthos, would you like to join us all for some tea?" Elise asked timidly.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look and then smiled. Turning to Marcie and her father, Aramis raised an open hand towards the house as though guiding them. "After you both."

Georges passed his eyes over the little girl in her father's arms, his gruff demeanor melting into the shadow of the kind man beneath. "Would you like a little wooden doll? You can pick one you like from the shelf. They're just collecting dust at this point."

Marcie nodded, and squirmed from her father's arms as Georges showed the girl the different characters he had carved over the years on the shelf. Elise set out cups and prepared tea for their guests, while Marcie's father took a seat at the table. Porthos and Aramis stood almost as guards and watched the conversations that took place between Marcie's father and the elderly couple who had been forsaken by the people of Marcie's village.

##### ##### ##### ##### #####

Two days after that meeting, Aramis was in the midst of setting the last of his weapons on his belts, and he recalled that Marcie and her father – who they learned was named Tomas – had spent a number of hours with Elise and Georges. The group of them had a new understanding of the events that led to the elderly couple's shunning, and Tomas finally understood the truth of the night that had caused the Saint Martins to become recluses.

Also during their visit that afternoon, Marcie had acquired a small, wooden figurine of a noble lady in a long gown with long hair, and the three adults had offered to start making amends to correct the mistakes of the past.

Tomas had agreed to bring his children to visit with Elise and Georges, and he would make sure that his children were never without an adult to protect them in the woods. He made no promise about other children visiting, but Georges and Elise had decided that at their age they could not handle children without their parents' involvement, and it was just as well.

Tomas did, however, ensure that he would not let their names be tarnished any further with lies about being evil. He promised that he would be certain the truth of what happened in the past was known, and that the children who died were remembered – not as sacrifices for a witch or a devil – but as victims of the predatory animals in the woods. And, he would make sure the village children were educated to be wary of such predators, rather than fear fictional characters.

After that meeting, Aramis and Porthos had waited another day, just to be certain there would be no conflicts to come to the Saint Martin residence. However, they had decided that they were just delaying the inevitable, and rather than keep Captain Treville and Athos worrying, they would begin their journey back to the Garrison in Paris.

Aramis gave a tug on his musket to ensure it was locked in place, and he looked up to see Porthos wrapping his bandanna around the short curls of his head.

"Are you sure you can journey?" Georges asked, watching the two of them somehow transform from simple young men into experienced soldiers.

"You've been fine hosts," Porthos smiled with gratitude and a hint of humor, "But, I do miss my own bed."

Elise stepped forth with two small bundles, each pack filled with bread and fruit. She handed one to Aramis and one to Porthos. "Keep up your strength."

"You'll be safe now," Aramis said taking the small bundle with a smile. "Tomas has shown he is trustworthy and honest about his intentions."

"You're good men," Georges offered, as he scratched the tuft of hair above his right ear. "I'm sorry I was gruff when I first met you."

Elise took Georges' hand in her fingers, her face giving off a maternal smile as she shared a glance between the two musketeers. "If we could have had sons, I would have wanted them to be kind and noble like the both of you."

"Nah," Porthos teased with a grin, "You wouldn't have wanted sons like us. We're always getting into some kind of trouble."

Georges raised an eyebrow as though inspecting the two musketeers for a long moment. "Yeah, I can see that about you two. Both of you got a good glint of mischief in your eyes. Now, go on. Get out of here before I get attached to you."

Aramis smirked as he looked to his friend before he gave a gracious bow to Elise and Georges. "Enjoy your anniversary, and may the Lord above keep you safe."

Stepping out of the house, Aramis and Porthos closed the door behind them and moved past the boundaries of the yard. As they began the long walk back towards the small town where they had last seen their horses, Porthos took a moment to look out into the distance.

"Do you think Captain Treville will believe we've been nothing but Good Samaritans on this mission?" Porthos asked his friend.

Aramis glanced briefly at Porthos and then the two of them suddenly shared a laugh that left Porthos clutching at the stitches in his hip and leaning against a tree.

"It would be best to tell him that we got ourselves involved with some tavern servants and a few rowdy card games, and that we lost track of time," Aramis finally replied as he helped to get Porthos moving again. "The last thing he'll believe of us is that we had been innocently helpful for once."

"I suppose you and me got our reputations to keep," Porthos snorted, unable to hold in another laugh. However, his words then faded into the woods as they walked, and he found himself thinking about what Elise had said if she could have had sons like them. And, after a long moment, he finally understood. "Any other musketeer would have listened to me and abandoned me that night in the woods when we were running from those men, but you refused."

Aramis abruptly stopped walking and shifted his gaze to Porthos. "It would have been on my conscience if I had left you. That's not a mark I can live with."

"No," Porthos said as he turned to look at Aramis. "Elise saw it, even though we didn't, but I do see it now."

Tilting his head in curiosity, Aramis started scrutinizing over Porthos' face for signs of fever. "It's a little past the time for an infection, but I suppose anything is possible."

Porthos brought a hand forward and set it on Aramis' shoulder, his smile brightening in the morning sunlight. "You and me, Aramis, we're not just soldiers, musketeers, or friends. We're brothers. That's Elise saw."

Glancing into the distance before studying Porthos again, Aramis considered that maybe Elise and Georges had seen just a little more between them than even they had, and he would be proud to consider Porthos his brother, even though their ancestry would argue otherwise.

Aramis now smiled mischievously in reply. "Well then, Brother, we should get back home quickly before our dear Papa Treville prepares to delve out discipline. I'd rather not give Athos the satisfaction of supervising us on stable duty again."

At that, Porthos laughed heartily, nodding in understanding before the two of them started walking once more. "I think it's too late to save ourselves from that fate, but I can get used to this brothers idea."

"So can I," Aramis answered in kind as he shot a contented look at Porthos, accepting him as his family and realizing that there was no other in his life who could ever satisfy such an honor quite so fittingly.


End file.
